


House of Camera

by Dryad



Series: The Shadows; Where Softly Steps the Light [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 19th Century America, AU, F/M, Gen, Pre-Slash, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Violence, children in peril, pg13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:33:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11687937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: Sherlock well understood how Lestrade felt. Though his own family was landed and lorded, from an early age he had been acquainted with the streets, and thus the predators that inhabited them.Was, in deed, a predator himself.





	1. Don't Look the Other Way

**Author's Note:**

> I've added in the Johnlock tags, now. This is still a slow burn fic, however, with the emphasis on slooow. Don't worry, though, you know where my sympathies lie. ;-)

Lestrade pursed his lips; he was unhappy. Though Sherlock wasn't sure if that was because of what Sherlock had said or because of what he did.

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Sergeant Weir poking his head in. "What?"

"Sir, there's a hullabaloo you're wanted for."

Lestrade got up, pointed at Sherlock. "We're not through with this conversation, right?"

Sherlock waited a beat before following Lestrade out the door. There was nothing of interest in the papers on Lestrade's desk anyway. 

"Oh G-d, it's Mrs. Wallace," muttered Lestrade in an aside to Sherlock as they entered the lobby.

Mrs. Wallace was a slight woman, older, dressed all in black and clutching the hand of a child, some eleven or twelve years of age. The girl was filthy, cheeks smudged with dirt, hair a twisted bird's nest, her brown dress ragged and torn. Even the shoes she was wearing were old, her toes poking out of her top, both feet poking out of the tops of the shoes. Even her socks had a holes in them. She kept looking from Mrs. Wallace to Lestrade to whomever was walking by, ignoring Sherlock completely apart from one very astute and measuring glance.

"Mrs. Wallace, what can I do for you today?" asked Lestrade, his hands fisted behind his back.

"Detective Lestrade, I found this young lady rooting around in my garden. Betsy got her to come inside, and the story she's told me is so abhorrent, so terrible, that I knew I had to come to you as soon as she had broken her fast."

"Weir, we'll be in the interview room," said Lestrade, motioning Mrs. Wallace and her charge to the left.

Sherlock trailed behind them and slipped into the room before Lestrade had a chance to shut the door. He ignored Lestrade's eye roll in favor of watching the girl intently. Mrs. Wallace sat upright, filled with moral fervor. The girl, on the other hand, was so wary Sherlock wasn't sure Lestrade would get a word out of her. No matter, he would offer her a dollar coin in exchange of any information that might be help him and his search for Moriarty. So far he hadn't been able to find anyone who was willing to tell him what he needed to know. In truth, he hadn't been able to find anyone unwilling, either. Maybe American criminals were tougher than their British counterparts...he found that difficult to believe. And yet.

"What's your name, then," asked Lestrade, sitting directly across from Mrs. Wallace instead of the girl. 

Sherlock was intrigued. Children were not his area, he should watch Lestrade for more tips. Here, for example, he would not have thought to try to make the child less anxious by placing his body in a certain way.

"Nora," she said. "Can I have something to eat?"

Mrs. Wallace slapped the girl lightly on her arm. "You've already had your breakfast."

"But I'm hungry! I haven't et for days!"

Lestrade held up one placating hand to Mrs. Wallace, who sat back with a huff. "I'll get you something after you tell us what you know."

Nora glared at him, but must have found what he said acceptable, for she scratched her inner elbow and started to speak. "When Mama took ill she brought me to Mr. Davis, who said he'd take care of me and the little ones. I said I could take care of myself, but Mama said she trusted him and that I should trust him too. She left the little ones with Mrs. Smith and Goody Temple, and Mr. Davis took me to his house. At first it was all right, there were other kids there and we all got a wash twice a week and new clothes. But then he said we had to work, so he took all the boys and made them go to the farms or the sea, and then all the girls, we was placed as seamstress-stress-ess or in Mrs. Poole's laundry. Mr. Davis says I was special, and when I asked him what I was special for, he told me he was going to make me real pretty and stuff."

"And did he?" asked Lestrade, trying and failing to keep a curious expression on his face.

Sherlock well understood how Lestrade felt. Though his own family was landed and lorded, from an early age he had been acquainted with the streets, and thus the predators that inhabited them. Was, in deed, a predator himself. 

Not of children, however.

Nora nodded. "He gave me over to Mrs. Camera, she runs a house for the girls and she gave us milk and cheese and meat, every day, at every dinner! We even got hot chocolate on Sundays!"

Mrs. Wallace made a sound of outrage and shook her head. Sherlock wondered if she would be equally disgusted if she knew he ate chocolate on a weekly basis, too, never mind the Turkish Delight and cake for tea. 

There was a single knock on the door, and then one of Lestrade's bunch, Sheehan, entered the room carrying a tray bearing a sandwich, an apple, and a cup of buttermilk. Roast beef and cheese - Sherlock pondered. Yes, he would eat something after he left here. 

"Here you are, miss," said Sheehan, flicking a 'did I do all right?' look at Lestrade, who returned it with a 'Yes, thank you' look in return. 

Sherlock was not surprised. Sheehan looked to Lestrade as a son looked to his father, provided his father was not a bastard. Sheehan was young and new on the job, anyone could see that from the way his hair was slicked back and the shine on his buttons.

"Is that for me?" cried Nora, wide-eyed at the tray.

"Yeah, just finish your story first," said Lestrade, tugging the tray back from her a bit.

Nora licked her lips, swallowed. Still staring at the tray, she began to talk again. "Mrs. Camera - "

"Did she have a lot of cameras?" interrupted Sherlock.

Nora nodded. "Made us dress up, that was fun, and have pillow fights. Carrie, she was the oldest," Nora side-eyed Mrs. Wallace, put her hands to her mouth and stage-whispered. "She had to put on just stays and pantalettes, nothing else!"

Lestrade shifted in his seat, while Mrs. Wallace pressed her hand to her chest and shook her head. 

"Did you have to dress like that, too?" asked Lestrade.

Shrugging, Nora looked down at her lap. "No sir. She put rags in my hair every night - "

Why? Sherlock took a closer look at the girl. Yes, underneath the grim sh e was pretty enough. Not to his taste, but no one really was. Well, apart from that one terrible night in the college.

"She took plenty of pictures, though. I over heard her say I was her favorite."

"Did you like Mrs. Wallace?"

"Yes sir! She was so nice -"

The _yes sir_ was so bright and cheery it was almost believable. _Almost_ , even if you weren't Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Perhaps if a person were very observant, they might notice how Nora shook her head in the negative while speaking. Body language always spoke better than words, mused Sherlock. And the more people understood that, the less they would find themselves in the clutches of the criminal class. Of course, some criminals were masterminds of making people disappear.

Moriarty was a fine example.

" - she didn't do us wrong when we was bad, either. Didn't whip us or nothing. Just said how disappointed she was, and how she couldn't keep us all there eating her food and stuff."

Lestrade pushed the tray closer to Nora, jerked his chin up when she looked at him. She grabbed the sandwich and took an enormous bite, her eyes bugging out as she tried to contain the bite in her mouth. Lestrade turned towards Sherlock. "Any of this sound familiar to you?"

"I've only been here three days," Answered Sherlock with some irritation. Honestly, he was very very good, but he couldn't magic up answers.

"Yes, but you're _you_ ," said Lestrade, crossing his legs. "I may not have seen you in a few years, but I know you. If anyone can find anything of importance, it'll be you."

 _And maybe this would be your in_. Sherlock heard the words, even if Lestrade didn't actually say them. He wished he knew what he had done to make Lestrade fond of him. Mycroft spoke highly of Lestrade, for reasons Sherlock could not fathom. Oh, there was Mycroft's infatuation with the man - Sherlock wondered if he should ask if Lestrade and Mycroft had shared their fantasies together yet. Lydia was not the sort to mind. If anything, he thought she might want to join in.

"Holmes?"

"Yes. Your Madame is obviously grooming young girls for the trade. "

Lestrade stared at him. Sighed. "Yes, I know that. Do you have anything else for me?"

Sherlock lifted one shoulder. "Nora, when you left Mrs. Camera's, where did she take you?"

"Down by t' harbour," she mumbled, mouth full of sandwich. She chewed, swallowed. "Couldn't see it, but y'can smell it, y'know? And hear ships bells. She took us in a taxi! Ain't never been in a taxi cab before. All the windows were shut and curtains fixed, but I didn't mind, 'cept Sissy kept farting. She's got bad farts."

Standing next to the door, Sheehan fought not to smile.

"After you left the taxi, what happened then?" Lestrade recrossed his legs, slumped a little lower in his chair, interested without seeming to be pushy about it. Sherlock decided he would practice doing the same before a mirror, to make sure it looked natural.

Nora put the remains of the sandwich down on the tray, drank deeply of the buttermilk. She had a little buttermilk mustache when she put the mug down, and angrily wiped it away. "I don't want to talk about it."

Lestrade leaned forward, got close down on the desk. "I know you don't, but I, we, Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Wallace and I, even Sheehan here, need to know what happened so we can stop it happening to the next girl."

Sherlock was greatly surprised when Mrs. Wallace put an arm around Nora's shoulders and side-hugged her tightly.

"It's all right, dear," said Mrs. Wallace tenderly. "No one's going to make you go back, not for all the tea in China. You'll stay with me and Betsy, won't you? You won't be the first I've helped, and you won't be the last. Now Detective Lestrade and Mr. Holmes," she looked at Sherlock curiously, openly, and with a dare to tell anyone different. "and Mr. Sheehan and everyone in this police station, We're going to make sure you never go back there, and Mr. Davis and Mrs. Camera go to jail for what they've done to you."

"But I don't want Mrs. Camera to go to jail!" wailed Nora, face screwing up into what promised to be a long, desperate cry.

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance. Did Mrs. Wallace know nothing? "Mrs. Camera will be fine, I promise," he said, feeling the weight of Lestrade's unhappiness at his lie. That was Lestrade's problem, he was too soft on children, always had been, always would be. Was probably even worse now that he had Nancy. "We do need to find where your friends are being held, however. We don't want any of them coming to a bad end."

"Holmes," muttered Lestrade.

Nora sniffled, looked at Sherlock. "She'll be fine?"

"I promise," Sherlock repeated.

"Pinky swear?"

What...?

Lestrade held out his fist, pinky extended. "He's new here, he doesn't know what that means, but I'll swear on it."

Nora curled her pinky finger around Lestrade's, and then they shook their hands…using only their pinkies. Ridiculous ritual, and one Sherlock firmly planned on putting in the closet of his mind palace. "Now, tell us about this house."

"It was big, three stories, and very fancy. Lot of velvet and drapes and everything was red and gold, real expensive. A man names Seb, he's Irish, we lined up in front of him in the fancy parlour and he told us we was going to work for him to repay Mrs. Camera and Mr. Davis for the 'spenses."

"Did you recognise anything, or anyone in there?" asked Lestrade.

It was Nora's turn to shrug, and then yawn, showing teeth whiter than she had any right to. "Clemmie was there. She and her Ma used to live down the street from me and Mama. Her Ma took off some years back, and Clemmie stayed with her nana for awhile, but then her nana died and we didn't see her no more."

"How long did you stay there?"

Nora smooshed crumbs of bread with her finger. "Dunno. Few weeks. It was all right at first, didn't do much except et and sleep and get taken pictures. "

"Then what happened?" asked Sherlock. "What changed your mind?"

Nora bent her head down even further, so she was talking directly to the table. "Mrs. Camera brought me to the little parlour. There were three gentlemen in there...I didn't like them. Felt funny in there."

Lestrade leaned forward too, mirroring her position once again, except he spoke to her instead of the table. "How? Did they look strange?"

"No," Nora shook her head. "It was the way they were looking at me. I was wearing my green stripe dress that Mrs. Camera said suited me, and she told me just to stand there and answer any questions they had."

"And what kind of questions were those?"

"How old I was, if I was in school, if my Mama knew where I was. I told them I was eleven, and then I did a wicked thing and told them Mama was alive and waiting for me to come a' night."

Lestrade nodded. "That was a good lie, Nora."

She looked up at him earnestly. "It was, wasn't it? Mama always told me not to lie, but I didn't like how they laughed when I said I was eleven. They looked at each other and laughed, and then they looked at me and I didn't like it."

She was getting teary again and Sherlock thought to forestall more crying. "How did you escape?"

"Well, Clemmie asked me if I had had a gentleman yet, and when I said no she said she would help me get out, that I was a nice girl and I shouldn't have to live a life like she did. I asked her what she meant, and she said that since I hadn't had one yet, Mrs. Camera was going to buy one for me."

While Sherlock understood what Nora meant, he wasn't quite sure _she_ understood what her friend meant. "What would happen after that?"

"I dunno. Clemmie's got a lot of gentleman friends, that's what Mrs. Camera says, and Mrs. Camera says I'll have a lot, too."

Lestrade let out of whoosh of breath. Smiled quite kindly at Nora. "So Clemmie helped you."

"Yeah. Yes, sir. You're supposed to help on laundry day, but Clemmie gets to send her clothes out for washing. She made me get in her basket, and then helped Rolly load it into the cart. She told him she wanted a a ride to the Emporium, and he offered her a seat on the wagon cause he's sweet on her. She told me to wait ten minutes, then get out of the basket and run away, but not to where we used to live. She doesn't know that I don't know where that is.. So that's what I did."

Mrs. Wallace nodded. "And that's how I found her. She was in an alley scrabbling through the refuse the first time I saw her. I had Betsy lay a trail of scraps until I could lure her into my garden, and now we're here."

"And a good thing, too," replied Lestrade. "Did you hear a lot of bells at night, once you were at Mrs. Camera's?"

"Yes, sir. Lots of them. Maybe I'm wrong, but when I think about it, they were kind of distant."

"Which way did you hear them? When you were lying in your bed?" asked Sherlock.

Nora thought for a moment, said, "They came from the East. From my feet, I think. Oh, and you could smell the tea on the wind in the morning, and Mrs. Camera ate oysters real fresh."

Ah. "Thank you, Nora. You've been far more help than I ever thought you could be. If you are even more observant and pay attention to Mrs. Wallace, who for some unknown reason likes you and wants to take care of you, you have every chance of having a successful future."

Mrs. Wallace stared at him quizzically, but Sherlock refused to explain her odious obviousness further. That she wanted Nora for her own was no concern of his, although it did appear she would do well by the child.

"All right, Nora, you're free to to go," said Lestrade, sitting up. After a moment of staring at Nora, he glanced at Mrs. Wallace. "If she remembers anything, yeah?"

"Of course. Now, come along, Nora," she said, getting to her feet. "Let's get you home and cleaned up."

"Yes, ma'am."

Sherlock stood aside to allow Mrs. Wallace and her charge go past, then followed Lestrade into the hallway. Watching them leave, he said, "I don't have enough information."

Lestrade looked at him with eyebrows raised. "Really? I thought you were pulling my leg back there."

"I never jest about such things, Lestrade. Surely you know me better than that."

"Yeah, yeah, I do. Nonetheless, I'm going to send the boys down to the wharves and see what they can come up with."

Sherlock frowned. "No, no, you'll only scare Camera and Davis off it you do that. It's best if I go. Didn't Nora say it was gentlemen who wanted her services, such as they are?"

Lestrade grimaced, shook his head. "I'll leave you to it, then. But Sherlock, if I smell one whiff of opium on you, I'll send you right back to your brother."

"Hardly," drawled Sherlock, leaving Lestrade to his business and already thinking about dressing for the wharves, what might be acceptable and what would be outlandish. He would have to make an educated guess, for the American standard was quite different from what he was accustomed to in England. 

With this in mind, Sherlock returned to his lodgings and changed clothes. He dressed in what he considered ordinary clothing, nothing too flashy or colorful, yet clearly well made. From there, he left for the wharves. He took a cab to the end of State Street, where he decided that walking was his best option. He took in the entirety of the Long Wharf, listening hard and orienting himself to Nora's position in her bed. There was little chance he was going to pinpoint where she had been by sound alone, yet he suspected he could decipher the general area. 

It took him four days. Longer than he thought, but Boston, though small, was unfamiliar territory, and required the judicious use of costuming. He hadn't realized how wary Bostonians were; they watched the moves of any newcomer, especially the wealthy ones, who also surprised him by being less than inconspicuous. No Lord of London would be so free or comfortable swanning about as if nothing in the world mattered save their own pleasure, not in neighborhoods like these. And, he discovered, the American underclass was both oddly forgiving of the ignoring of social niceties, and quick to anger.

Sherlock spent many hours walking the wharves. Long Wharf, India Wharf, Central Wharf, Commercial Wharf, down to Foster's Wharf and then the long, long walk up to Battery Wharf and up the Charles, though he was certain that was the wrong direction. He delved into the side streets, but saw mostly only poor people who gave him equal looks of fascination and dread. He determined to have another set of clothing for investigating these neighborhoods, he was too conspicuous in his gentleman's getup.

It was by chance he discovered Mrs. Camera. He had stopped in a shop to buy a plug of tobacco and a penny twist when two women began to fight near the canned goods. 

"I said, where is she?" asked the smaller of the two in a thick Irish accent. "Where's my Siobhan?"

The other woman, who wore her red hair in a thick bun at the back of her head, sneered. "I don't know, dearie, why don't you ask on the corner? That's the last place anyone's ever seen her."

Siobhan's mother slapped the red-head, her strike so quick and so hard the other woman staggered against the triangular display, knocking several cans over. "You fecking bitch! Mrs. fecking Camera, I'll fecking bash you if you don't tell me where she is!"

"Mrs. O'Beirne!" shouted the man behind the counter, shoving up the counter door so hard it banged right back down with a tremendous clap. "You keep that language to yourself."

"Sean Brady," she cried, pointing at the other woman. "My Siobhan's gone missing, and that bitch knows where she is!"

"Y'don't know nothing," he said, bringing one massive arm around Mrs. O'Beirne's shoulders and drawing her towards the other side of the shop. "Mrs. Camera's a good wom- "

"A _good_ woman!" screeched Mrs. O'Beirne, shoving him away to look at Mrs. Camera, who stood there with one hand to her cheek, tear after tear rolling down her cheeks. 

Sherlock was impressed.

"She's a liar and a whore! I want my Siobhan back, you bitch, and if I don't get her back by the morning there'll be hell to pay!" called Mrs. O'Beirne as she was hustled out into the street.

The other customers were whispering amongst themselves and side-eying Mrs. Camera, giving Sherlock the perfect opportunity to insinuate himself into her questionable graces. He strode forward with arms outstretched, pasting a look of concern on his face. "Mrs. Camera? May I call you..."

"Lettie," she said, more tears threatening to fall from her shining brown eyes.

"Will you at least let me walk you home? I would hate to think Mrs. O'Beirne has driving you from your very neighborhood."

She blinked, slowly, was not in the least bit phased by his question and comment. "I'm sure a gentleman such as yourself has better things to do than walk me home."

"I've nothing else to do, I am as free as a bird with my time today, and it would please me greatly to walk you to your door."

"Oh," she said, with an effective little wobble to her voice even as she eyed him from hat to shoes.

As if she could fool him, Sherlock Holmes. She was good, but not as good as he was. He even went so far as to buy her parcel of goods, making a point of flashing the money is his wallet. 

Mrs. Camera peppered Sherlock with questions on the walk back to her home. Did he know the Queen? Was he familiar with Mr. Dickins? She had enough money saved, would it be worth trying to buy a copy of Mr. Audubon's work, even though volumes were scarce?

Sherlock answered absently, instead noting every tenement house on the block. 

The quality of people was as he expected; ordinary workers, dockworkers, housewives, children, sailors. Interestingly, the street prostitutes made a point of turning their backs to him as soon as they saw Mrs. Camera. They turned down Fish Street, Mrs. Camera chatting away non-stop, finally coming to a halt in front of a mid-row house. 

Mrs. Camera fumbled for a key, and, finding it, finally opened the door. Sherlock followed her in without hesitations, nor did she try and stop him, as any modest woman would. There was a short hallway with doors leading off of it from either side. Mrs. Camera brought him into a library, if libraries had bars. Built-in bookcases stood along two walls, and saloon bar was along the third with fancy ironwork stools in front of it, and a door square in the middle of the wall facing him.

"Let me get a drink for your trouble, " she said, beginning to simper. "Just a wee thank you for helping me today. I'm sure that man would have threatened me without you being there."

Oh, Sherlock highly doubted that. No, the clerk would have taken bets on who would win. "Thank you," he said, accepting the glass of bourbon. He brought it to his mouth, mimed taking a sip.

"So, mister...you never did tell me your name?" said Mrs. Camera, sidling up to him and looking at him through her lashes.

"Scott. William Scott, at your service."

"Mr. Scott, pleasure. What brings you to Boston?"

Sherlock followed her lead and took a seat on the settee. "Business. I plan on returning to England in a month or two."

"And do you have friends in town?"

"None as such," he said, which was not precisely an untruth. Unless Lestrade counted as a friend?

She brightened, and almost made it seem non-predatory. "I hope you'll consider me a friend, Mr. Scott. I don't know if you've noticed, but I run a small salon here. We have many entertainments as well, for businessmen such as yourself, and young Ladies who need proper chaperoning. Perhaps you would like to come some evening and meet new people?"

"Mrs. Camera, I would absolutely _love_ to, thank you! I haven't really know what to do with myself since I arrived, and that was only last week."

"That's wonderful, wonderful! As it happens, I'm having a small gathering here tomorrow night - will you be able to attend?"

"Absolutely," said Sherlock, gearing himself up to drink the bourbon. She wouldn't try to poison him so early in the game, he was sure of it. He made a mental note to ask Lestrade about the class of people who were murdered in the neighborhood. 

Mrs. Camera clapped her hands together. "I must prepare my young ladies for the event. They'll be so happy to see a fresh face, and to meet a gentleman from England!"

The conversation began to grow tedious - more tedious - and Sherlock finally tossed back the bourbon, its cloying sweet flavour making him salivate.


	2. Twenty Year Old Talisker

Once he left to attend his new patient, Sherlock allowed how intriguing he found Dr. Watson. He was the most curious man Sherlock had ever met, a combination of softness and steel. He simmply could not figure Watson out. His motive should have been obvious; as an Army officer - rough and tumble, not particularly discerning of fashion or anything, yet there he was with his parcel of Darjeeling, a favored varietal from his time in India. And India, why? Why the Army, when he could have been a country doctor in England? Because he had a lust for adventure? A lust for coming near death? It would not be a desire to see India, he could just as easily have been sent to the Crimea.

So. Watson was a mild mannered man on the surface, but Sherlock had seen the flash in his eyes at Hudson's Public House, the daring as he had come to first Lestrade's, then Sherlock's rescue, the attention to which he had seen to Sherlock's wound. He was an angry man. Obviously his time in India had not been easy. Lestrade had grinned and been suspiciously quiet, telling Sherlock that if he wanted to know, he would have to ask Watson himself. 

Which was why he had invited himself to the good doctor's house for tea. He would have done so even if the tea had not been Darjeeling. The sister had been unexpected, however. He had assumed Watson had a wife of some sort or another. That had been easy enough to see, though now that he was here in the house, it had become apparent that Watson brushed his own suits and polished his own boots. He saw a decent, though not expensive, tailor, and trimmed his hair every six weeks or so by a good barber. He bought quality goods, and his medical practice had a good reputation amongst all classes, from highest to lowest. Which was odd. Not the practice,but the variety of classes. That made no sense. 

Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Lausier were in a relationship. Both were married, though the younger woman had no children. A wise choice, thought Sherlock. If he were a woman he would never want to risk his health by carrying a child. Unless more doctors were like her brother, with his constant hand washing and advice on cleanliness. Sherlock very much appreciated that Watson was a man of science above all. Not for him old wives tales and the unconscionable practices of doctors past and far too many doctors present.

"You look deep in thought, Mr. Holmes," murmured Mrs. Lausier, pouring herself another cup of tea. She held up the pot slightly, raised an eyebrow.

He considered, held out his cup and saucer. "Merely observing family life, Mrs. Lausier."

She frowned apologetically. "I'm sorry, but please call me Clara. Every time someone calls me Mrs. Lausier, I expect to see my husband reading over my shoulder."

"Has he been gone long?" Sherlock asked politely, even though cared very little.

"How did - oh. A little over two years," she said, her smile turning faint. 

"Do you expect him to return?" he asked, because that was what people did, or so he had been told. Small talk. The discussion of inconsequential things amongst strangers. Safe topics included; food, hens' eggs, the loveliness of Paris in the springtime, the Elgin Marbles and, of course, Queen Victoria and her retinue. Clara's answer, however had been...nonchalant? Boring? Unreal? She did not expect her husband back, nor did she want him to return, because...because she knew he was not coming back. Because she knew he was...somewhere other than what she had been telling everyone. Why live here with Mrs. Watson? Well, no, that part was obvious, but why not move to a new house that could contain all of them with room to spare? They only had one servant, a slave by the markings on her wrist, as well as the subservient, sly, and reticent conversation he had had with her. Jingle was her ridiculous name. He wondered if John had availed himself to her charms - a second later he shied away from the thought. Some men enjoyed that sort of infamy, but Watson was not one of them.

"No, I don't believe he will be back." said Clara, stirring her tea with a reticent smile.

Watson's sister left him alone to sit next to Clara, who instantly looked relieved. "My husband is also gone."

She smiled as she said it, a different smile from the ghastly rendition that Clara had shown him. So she knew what had happened, too. 

"Dr. Watson?" The slave, Jingle, popped her head around the door. "There are new patients. Shall I tell them to come back later?"

And another thing, where did Jingle's accent come from. She did not sound at all like Clara. Sherlock had been to North Carolina, and a corner of Kentucky, and had tried on the accents. He of course had no problem fitting on those accents for dress up, but in real life? On a daily basis? No. The very thought of it was impossible.

A small, not uncomfortable silence fell after Dr. Watson left the room. Sherlock drank his tea and noted how closely the two women sat next to one another, how comfortable they were. How they did not fear appearing affectionate in front of him was a mystery. They were close friends, of course, but something extra, too. They had no far of discovery...even though he was a stranger in their midst. Watson knew and condoned it by his very silence. He loved his sister, yes, but what man would choose to have a woman like that in his family, and then choose to live in the very same house as her lover?! 

"Your husband is dead, Mrs. Lausier," he announced, just to see what would happen, and indeed, Clara blanched. Mrs. Watson paled as well, which was a surprise. And then her cheeks flushed bright red, spring up to the tips of her ears.

But Clara cast her eyes down at her hands once again. "What makes you say that, Mr. Holmes?" 

Clara's cup was rattling ever so slightly in its saucer, but Sherlock didn't draw any attention to it. "Mrs. Watson is comfortable having you here. You have no children and Mrs. Watson certainly doesn't appear to be pining for her spouse. She dotes on you and is happy to have you teach her children their letters and numbers. Your clothing isn't in the latest fashion, hence your obsessive need to be tidy. On the days you don't leave the house - your boots are new, dust and muck free, proof that you're still breaking them in by only wearing them here in the house - "

"I've been outside today!" Clara broke in. She sat up straight, trying to appear confident and dismissive at the same time, and failing miserably at both. 

"You took the bus," Sherlock flicked his fingers at her. "and used the sidewalks up town. You were indoors for most of the day."

Clara blushed fiercely, two spots on her cheeks flushed bright red.

"That proves nothing," Harried said. "There isn't any evidence for anything you're saying whatsoever!"

Sherlock conceded the point with a nod.

"No, I don't have any evidence," he said. Then he smiled. "But that doesn't matter, does it? The truth is out."

"Don't tell John!" gasped Clara, inhaling so hard she held her breath for a long moment after. All at once she released it, chest heaving, then continued. "Please, Mr. Holmes! Please, don't tell him - it would ruin him in this country!"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course I'm not going to tell him, why would I?"

"Then what is this?" cried Mrs. Watson, abruptly getting to her feet, gripping Clara's shoulder tightly as if to anchor herself. 

"A puzzle to solve. An exercise in mystery and personal satisfaction."

"That's...that's awful, Mr. Holmes," said Clara.

Sherlock quite admired her new found amiability in the face of such accusation. Even his telling off was gently, yet firmly done. Perhaps he had been wrong in mentioning it to them. Perhaps he should have merely written about it in his diary, a case for his monograph of deductive techniques. 

"You should not tell people their secrets in public if it is not for a criminal case."

"My heartfelt apologies, Mrs. Lausier. I find I ...am at a loss," how odd, that he did feel genuinely sorry. He wished he could ask someone how he could have done better. 

_"You should never have gotten involved in the first place," Mycroft said, shaking his head in a vaguely disappointed school master kind of way. "That was your initial mistake."_

Too late, Sherlock realized he liked Clara, and Mrs. Watson too, for that matter, even though she drank too much, and did Dr. Watson know? Hurting people was sometimes necessary, nay, frequently necessary, in his line of work, either physically or mentally. Nearly all of them were incapable of thinking beyond that, but perhaps Clara was different. Yes, she was different. Sweet, kind, gentle.

A murderess.

"How did you do it?"

"Oh, my G-d," muttered Mrs. Watson, leaving Clara's side to walk around the sofa. "Do you even hear what you're saying?"

Head held high, Clara stared at Sherlock. She nodded once sharply. "This doesn't go beyond this room. I'll hang if it does. So will John's sister, Harriet, and Jingle, too. Harriet's children will be left without a mother and a father - think on that before asking!"

Granted, not all of that had come to mind, but Sherlock didn't care. He sat still for a moment, hoping that would be long enough for his supposed acquiescence. "Do go on."

Clara closed her eyes, nostrils flaring in thought. "Harriet had brought the children to see me. Guillaume was upset about something that happened on his most recent trip, and then accused me of being a whore. With Clara. When I went to speak to him, he accused me of sabotaging hims, then we fought. He hit me, Mr. Holmes," The last was mumbled, Clara looking down at her lap. "He hit me, more than once. He hit Harriet too, I think. Then Jingle came in and made sure he wasn't going to get up again. Harriet was there, she saw it all."

"And he was dead?"

"Most definitely," answered Mrs. Watson, one hand gripping the other so tightly the knuckles were white and bloodless.

"What will you do when his body is found?"

"There is no body," answered Clara. She looked much calmer now, almost serene. "The house burned, Mr. Holmes. A fire so hot the glass in the windows melted, a fire that raged so well the kitchen stove was naught but a lump of melted metal. Even his bones remain uncollected."

Sherlock mused on these facts, decided there was no point in torturing them further. "I see I am indeed out witted in this crime. Very well done of you all."

"You talk as if it were all planned," Mrs. Watson said acidly, coming around the sofa to sit next to Clara once more. "But truly, it was all just an accident."

"I'm not sure 'accident' is the word I would use," Clara patted Mrs. Watson's hand. "Perhaps a series of events that ended in a man's death, and a woman's happiness."

"I see no point in discussing it further," Sherlock swirled his cooled tea, watched the tea dust in the bottom of the cup swirl. "But I thank you for your honesty. It's a rare commodity these days."

Clara relaxed, looking comfortable and certainly less upright than she had only a few moments before. "Well. It was good to talk about it, even though it was and is a horrible thing."

Mrs. Watson nodded, and when they looked at one another, Sherlock was forcibly reminded of their personal relationship, a relationship that went beyond the bounds of propriety. He had known boys like them at Eton. Childhood pals, that was what the adults had considered them to be, when the adults had thought of them at all. But Sherlock had seen true love at Eton, even if he had not understood it himself. It seemed as though Harriet and Clara might fall into that latter category after all. It was, he found, a rather lovely idea. Not for himself, of course, but others, people like them, yes.

Sherlock drank the rest of his tea - even cold it was delicious and refreshing - and accepted another from the pot. Over-mashed, of course, but he was thirsty. With the clearing of the air, Harriet and Clara discussed more trivial things, and asked his opinion on several matters of difference between the Colonies and Mother England. He knew some of the basics, everyone did, and was somewhat miffed by their amused expressions when it became clear he knew even less than he thought he did. He changed the topic to that of crime, and soon they were all engrossed in the case of the Leopard's Tail, wherein he regaled them with the discovery of the diamonds in the very tip of the tail, solving a murder and returning the diamonds to their rightful owner all at the same time. It was at this point that Dr. Watson returned.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," said Watson, bringing the winter's chill in spring with him as he removed his scarf. "You're still here."

"Yes, I was wondering if you would care to accompany me to an salon this very evening," said Sherlock.

"Tonight? Oh, I don't know if I can make it tonight."

"Oh John, do go," said Mrs. Watson, taking his scarf, unfolding and then refolding it to her desired dimensions. "You so rarely take entertainment without the children. Do yourself a favor and have a good time."

Watson frowned at her, even though he was smiling at the same time. Sherlock was sure there was a word for that expression, but what it was completely escaped him. He determined to re-read the dictionary on the voyage back to England.

"Are you trying to get rid of me for the night?"

Clara leaned forward to look around Mrs. Watson. "Yes, John, that's it exactly. We have made plans for our own entertainment this evening, and it would please us greatly if you would let us get to it."

Watson looked a little confused, but he nodded slowly anyway, making Sherlock wonder if he really understood the nature of the relationship between his sister and her friend.

"I suppose I could go out again. Have you eaten, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have not, Dr. Watson," and had no interest in doing so, either. It appeared that Watson was much like Lestrade, in needing to eat so often when on a case. Admittedly, Watson had no idea he was on a case. "I do suggest we eat before we go to the salon."

"Talkative bunch, are they?" said Watson, leaning out the door. "Jingle!"

"If you don't mind," Sherlock rose hastily. "I would prefer to eat on the way. I discovered a marvelous little establishment the other day near India Wharf."

"India Wharf!" exclaimed Mrs. Watson. "Oh John, get more Darjeeling, please! And Turkish Delight, if they have any?"

Watson rolled his eyes, yet it was clearly in fond amusement. "I'll have you know that Norman Reinhardt sent me that tea directly from the estate. I'll be lucky enough to find another packet of it, never mind the same quality," then he glanced at Sherlock. "Or perhaps the young gentleman here will sniff out the good stuff."

Sherlock wasn't sure if Watson's comment was on the size of his nose or had some other meaning, but it did not sound offensive. Even if it was offensive, he decided not to acknowledge it. The salon was still to come and if Watson backed out, he was not sure he had time to get Lestrade. Besides, chances were someone would recognize Lestrade, who was still stupid, but had a much better record than his compatriots.

"However, they do have curry powder," added Watson slyly.

"John!" Mrs. Watson stood up and rushed into her brother's open arms. She kissed him multiple times on the cheek while he grinned and laughed. "You are a star! Bring me back an ounce, no, two, no, a pound!"

"All right, off with you, lass," Watson said, pushing her away with great affection. "I'll get you your curry powder, and more, besides."

The slave, Jingle appeared at the door, a concerned smile on her lips. She folded her hands in front of her apron and waited. It was Clara who saw her and smiled. "New spices, Jingle, are coming your way! John's going to bring home curry powder - "

"Maybe some chilies, too," said Watson, beckoning Sherlock with one hand. "If we're lucky."

"A pineapple wouldn't go amiss, sir," said Jingle, backing into the hallway as Watson and Sherlock left the room. "Or nutmeg, or mace. Black peppercorns, oranges, a cone of golden sugar, a ginger root."

"I'm going to a salon, Jingle, not shopping," Watson chided as he slipped his coat back on.

Sherlock wrapped his own scarf around his neck and then buttoned his coat. 

"Anise, too," answered Jingle, brushing down the nap on Watson's shoulders. "and cinnamon, if you please."

Watson caught Sherlock's eye and shook his head, one corner of his mouth turned up. _Chefs!_ he mouthed. Sherlock couldn't have agreed more. Philip Langlois, Mycroft's chef, was an utterly odious human being, however he cooked the most marvelous dishes with spice that Sherlock had ever had the pleasure of eating. Langlois certainly made Mycroft's presence at the same time bearable, and that was no mean feat.

"Yes, Jingle. Would you like to give me the coins in order to buy all of these goods for you?" said Watson, turning and bending his knees to look her in the eye a bit.

Jingle swatted at him."I was going to make a treat for Miss Eliza's birthday, if you must know. "

"Oh, well, that makes sense. Consider it done."

Jingle's face squinched up with happiness.

Once they were outside, waiting to hail a passing taxicab, Sherlock said, "You've pleased them all."

"Trust me, it's a rare occurrence."

"I would think women to be rather easily pleased."

Watson, halfway in the process of getting into the cab, swung back to Sherlock. "You clearly know nothing about women if you think that has any bearing in reality." 

Sherlock sniffed, affronted. Glared at the cab driver, whose chuckle he had overheard, and whose shoulders were still shaking.

They dined at the India Wharf Emporium, which was not a shop at all, but a restaurant serving customers from around the world. The Emporium was large, taking up one corner of the second floor of the building. Greenery was extensive and while it did not hide one's fellow diners, it certainly made them more difficult to identify, and that was good enough for Sherlock. Besides, the food was to a high standard, yet still reasonable for the average gentleman. There was nothing similar in London, and though he would not say it was worth crossing the Atlantic for, he would certainly make it the first place he ate, the next time he did make the trip. Assuming there would be a next time.

At Watson's frown, Sherlock ordered for him; clams in white sauce on top of spaghetti, a leafy dressed salad, because in this weather, where had the chefs gotten such sweet greens? Especially at this time of the year? A mulligatawny soup which delighted Watson so much, he ate the rest of Sherlock's bowl as well. Sherlock stuck with the tongue in aspic, the soup, and ate a good deal of the nut and cheese plate. He did not particularly have a desire for cheese, though the Vermont cheddar was excellent, but wanted to provide a stop gap for the alcohol he would be drinking as soon as they arrived at Mrs. Camera's. Which reminded him. "Dr. Watson," he began, then paused.

"Go ahead, ask me anything," Watson said garrulously, cracking open another walnut. "Unless you want to marry my sister, in which case I'll have to send you on your way with a black eye _and_ advice on how to treat it. Though I suspect you've already been told that information, perhaps multiple times."

Sherlock stared at the other man, wondering how on earth he had known. What had Lestrade said about his past?

Watson glanced at him and grinned. "I've still got it."

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Sherlock decided he had to be somewhat honest. "I...have another purpose besides enjoying your company."

He blinked. _Enjoying his company?_ Where on earth had that come from? Watson eyed him curiously. "Yes, I hope you don't mind. I have a client, a mother, who's desperate to find her daughter. I discovered the daughter, Clemmie, short for Clementine, will be at the salon this evening. It is my job to convince her to come home, and I need someone with me in order to facilitate this."

Watson popped half a walnut in his mouth, chewed, eying Sherlock all the while. He took a sip of beer. "So what you're saying is that Clemmie ran away from home, her mother's worried sick, you found Clemmie in a whorehouse and want to get her out even though you're not sure she wants to leave. Is that about it?"

After a short, shocked silence, Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Thought so. Wouldn't be the first time a man's gone crazy after a girl in a bad situation."

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what Watson meant by that. He paused, then clarified. "I've...never met Clemmie. Women aren't really my area."

"Married to your work?"

"Something like that."

Watson nodded, contemplated eating another piece of cheese. After a second he put it back down on his plate. "You're like me, then. Unattached."

Yes. "Yes, unattached."

Watson held up his glass, and Sherlock realized he was expected to clink his own glass against Watson's. How...banal. Perhaps he was mistaken about Watson after all.

"So where is this place again?"

"Just off of India Wharf. I don't think it has a name."

"Ah, one of those places," said Watson, looking away to get a waiter's attention. "Right, we'd best be off then. Check, please!"

Some ten minutes later they arrived at Mrs. Camera's abode, and were brought in by a young girl in a short dress, pantalettes showing well above the knee. Watson's gaze lingered on her bare shoulders, and once more, Sherlock wondered if he had brought the wrong man with him. He had assumed, from Watson's demeanor, that he was not a man of deviant temperment...no, he was not wrong in this. He could not be wrong in this, as he had been with Richard.

Sherlock could hear the rumble of masculine voices from the parlour, and when they walked in, it was to find a group of gentlemen of varying ages sitting and drinking and smoking at their ease. 

From her position on the sofa, Mrs. Camera, now dressed in an olive green gown that set off her fiery hair handsomely, spied them and held out both hands. "Mr. Scott! Oh, you brought a friend with you, how delightful!"

"Mrs. Camera," Sherlock replied, bowing over her hand in a demonstration of overt friendliness. He hoped that she would read it as him being attracted to her. Though why he would be, under any circumstances, was beyond his ken.

"And your friend?"

"Hamish Buchanan," Watson said, going so far as to kiss her hand as well as merely hold it. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Camera."

She gazed at the two of them with a look that Sherlock could only describe as predatory. "You're just in time. My girls will be making their entrance soon. In the meantime, please enjoy a drink supplied by Mr. Sullivan."

One of the older gentlemen sitting in the wingback chair next to the fireplace tipped his glass at them, smiled in a most unpleasantly superior manner. "Please do enjoy the whiskey. Brought all the way over from the old country."

A most unexpected surprise and one Sherlock was glad to get. "You're from Dublin."

"Aye, that I am. Have you been to Eire's city of jackeen?"

Sherlock chose to pretend he didn't understand the slang. "I have, sir. A most enjoyable experience."

Sullivan's smile twisted into a sneer. "Not something every Sassenach says."

"I'll thank you to keep that sort of tongue in your head," growled Watson.

Sherlock resisted glancing at the good Doctor. He was Sherlock's 'friend'? They were 'friends' now? What had that happened?

The bloke standing next to Sullivan's chair straightened, a toothy grin appearing on his face. "You English bastards."

Sherlock blocked Watson with one arm. "We're not here for a fight - "

"Aye, but you might get one," said the youngest one, leaning forward eagerly in his seat.

"See there, y'bastards, you're not welcome here," said the man by Sullivan, but Sullivan shook his head.

"Tee, not now."

"That's enough," called Mrs. Camera, waving one hand negligently. "Mr. Walsh, Mr. Tierney, why don't you go see if the ladies are ready."

Tierney snorted, pushed off the wall and swaggered out of the room, Walsh following. The atmosphere eased, the other men in the room beginning to talk amongst themselves again.

"Thank you, Mrs. Camera," said Sherlock. He perched on the edge of the sofa where she lounged. "We're not fighting men, as you can see."

She eyed him, then Watson, albeit with a more lingering gaze on Watson. "Are you not?"

Watson shifted, and Sherlock found it hard to tell if he was pleased or displeased. "Mr. Tierney and Mr. Walsh seem particularly eager toward their country," he said. "Are they new residents of Boston?"

"No. But they defend their country against all comers. Don't you feel the same way about the Empire?"

Sherlock shrugged. 

"The sun never sets on the British Empire," said Watson, still standing. At some point he had gotten himself a glass of whiskey, which Sherlock thought unwise.

"Indeed it does not," she said, getting to her feet. She boldly plucked the glass out of Watson's hand with a little smile, took it to the sidetable, retrieved a new glass from the cabinet and refreshed his drink with something golden from a decanter. Handing it back to him, she said, "I think you'll rather like this better than their Irish rotgut."

He sniffed delicately, and then his eyebrows shot up. "Twenty year old Talisker?"

"A man who can tell his whisky and his whiskey apart," Mrs. Camera rustled to the door opposite the one they had come through and opened it. "What else can he tell apart, I wonder?"

Ah! Sherlock reoriented his knowledge of the building. Far from being just one house in the middle of the row, Mrs. Camera's establishment was actually two houses joined into one. So the women and girls filing through that door right now probably either earned their keep on that side, sleeping on this side to maintain the falsity that it was merely a lodging, and not a parlour house, as they called brothels in Boston. Or maybe it was the reverse. He glanced back at Watson, only to discover that Tierney and Walsh were back in the room, standing guard at the door. To keep the ladies inside, perhaps? Or to keep himself and Watson inside, with plans of robbery and murder? Watson had finished his whisky and was holding his glass as if he intended to hurl it at someone. Sherlock recognized the gleam in his eye and was glad for it.

The women lined up next to the door and waited, some casting 'come hither' looks, while others clearly found it hard to keep their eyes open. Sherlock remained seated, watching the men, first. 

"Your Caroline's here, Mr. Toomey, she's waiting for you upstairs, and Mr. Wexler, you see your Annie's just there," Mrs. Camera smiled and gestured the two men towards their destinations. "Oh, good choice, Mr. O'Brian, Rosie's a favorite with many."

Once the other men were gone, Mrs. Camera took the initiative, taking Watson by the shoulders and steering him closer. "What's your fancy tonight, Mr. Buchanan? We have here a maid from New Orleans, if you like octaroons, and here, this is Angela, she's Indian and knows the secrets of the East, she can do things with her puss that'll make a man weep. Mae, she's a good lass from Sudbury and she'll take it up the back, that's what she likes, and Clemmie, why, she's alone in the world and came to mine for rescue and a happy life. She's fresh and clean and still so tight. Now Missy and Lettie and Carrie, they're already taken, but I bet if you really fancy one of them, for an extra coin or two I can send you up with one of them," she looked back at Sherlock. "Or all of them, if you want. Guess that depends on your appetite."

Oh, Mrs. Camera was good. Just the right touch of bold without seeming overbearing. The litany of tricks, well, it certainly wasn't anything of interest to _him_ , thank G-d. Watson...

"I'll take the young one," croaked Watson, his cheeks flushing red. "I like 'em freshly plucked."

Mrs. Camera grinned. She leaned closer and whispered in Watson's ear. "Then you can show her what you like, Mr. Buchanan. Teach her all the things you know. Clemmie, you take Mr. Buchanan and show him a real good time."

Sherlock stood and took a couple of steps forward as Clemmie took Watson by the hand and led him into the hall and up the stairs. 

Watson did not look back.

"Now you," said Mrs. Camera, turning to face him. She moved closer, ran her fingers up and down his waistcoat. Her perfume no longer made him want to sneeze. As they were of a height, she had to lower her head to look at him through her eyelashes. "I'll take you to my own rooms and show you exactly why I'm in charge of this salon. I teach the girls everything they know, and then some. Won't you come sample what I can do?"

"Thank you no," he said, stepping around her to grab the octaroon Mrs. Camera had yet to name. "I've never had an octaroon before, I want to see if she's pink or not."

The woman whose wrist he gripped followed docilely enough, for which he was grateful. He wanted to stop on the landing and ask her which floor and room Clemmie was in, but he saw Mrs. Camera's shadow coming through the door from the parlour and continued on until they reached the second floor landing. There he whipped around, scaring the woman so badly she jerked back into the wall with a whimper. "Which room does is Clemmie's?"

The woman, no, she was a girl, really, maybe fifteen but it was hard to tell with the rouge she had on her cheeks and lips in the lamplight, she shrank down like a turtle into its shell and whispered something.

"What? What did you say?" he asked, shaking her a little.

"Number eight, room number eight," she glanced down the hall.

Sherlock saw a door with a five on it, the next with a six, and so on. The layout of the house was clear, now. He could not leave the girl behind, no matter what Watson might be doing with Clemmie, there was too big a chance she would rush right down to Mrs. Camera and then he and Watson would really be in the man-trap. He strode down the hall, keeping her close. "Name?"

"Clem - Clemmie?"

"Not hers, yours," he said, coming to a halt in front of door number eight.

"Perrine," she whispered, glancing up at him quickly before looking at the floor again.

"Perrine - " he began, then realized warning her about what they might see would be ridiculous; she worked here, of course she would have seen more things than he could even imagine.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock. He opened the door and swept in, dragging Perrine along and closing the door behind her. A single glance and he took in the unpleasantly red room: patchy maroon velvet drapes, a threadbare faux Persian carpet in red and black, red and gold wallpaper peeling in the corner under the water stain on the ceiling, a Chinese style bureau painted to look like cinnabar and failing miserably, a four poster bed with a scarlet duvet, a floor to ceiling mirror painted a verdigris tinged gold, opposite. 

John Watson and Clemmie sitting on the bed together, Watson still in his jacket, Clemmie's white pantalettes rucked up around her waist, her shirt unbuttoned to show her cream stays, her stays pushing high what breasts she had. Both of them stared at Sherlock in startlement. But Clemmie had her knees tucked up under her chin, and while Watson could easily have touched her, his hands were clasped loosely together in his lap.

"Holmes!" Watson shot to his feet. "I can't get her to see sense, she thinks I'm trying to trick her!"

For some reason Sherlock felt a wave of relief. Perrine pulled free and ran to Clemmie's side, where they clung to one another.

Watson approached Sherlock and spoke softly. "Can you do something? Anything? We can't leave them here."

"I know," said Sherlock. Taking a step forward, but not so far as to scare the girls, he held out one hand in mute appeal. "Clemmie, Nora sent us here. She was worried you'd take the blame for her escape. She's fine, she's clean and happy and she said you had no one to look after you except her."

Clemmie looked up at him, hope in her eyes. "She's alright then?"

"She's fine. She's staying with Mrs. Wallace, whom my friend Detective Lestrade knows very well. She's a g-d fearing woman, but not a bad one. Lestrade wouldn't let her be bad. And Lestrade has two girls of his own whom he loves very much. He wouldn't let anything happen to Nora, or you."

"How she know you tellin' the truth?" blurted Perrine.

Sherlock grimaced. Now she had to ask?

Watson suddenly held up one hand, half-turned towards the door and listening intently. "Quiet," he said softly.

Hobnailed boots provided a steady thud and click as someone walked by the room, and they all remained silent until they heard the closing of a door.

"We can't stay here too much longer," Sherlock said to Watson, who raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously, we can," Watson answered. "It's what that lot expect."

"All the more reason to leave sooner rather than later," said Sherlock, going to the door and opening it a crack to peek out. The hallway was empty, and he could hear laughter coming from the next room down. He moved the door almost closed, looked back at the girls. "Are you coming, or not?"

The girls looked at one another, then Clemmie nodded.

"Have you got anything else to wear?" asked Watson, and when Clemmie nodded, said, "Put it on. The darker the better."

Sherlock kept an ear to the door, but upon hearing a sob and a curse, looked over his shoulder.

Watson was rummaging through the bureau, and pulled out something dark that fell to his feet. He opened it, saw that it was a sheer net cloak, and swung it around Perrine's shoulders. She sniffed and gave him a puzzled look. "Well, we can't very well leave you behind, can we?"

"Oh Perrine, you've got to come with me," pleaded Clemie. "I'm sure Nora's friend will take care of us both!"

"And Lestrade will if...Nora doesn't."

Sherlock hoped neither girl heard John's slight hesitation. On the other hand, he too, was sure Lestrade would take on one or even both girls should the worst come to pass.

With Clemmie in Watson's jacket, and Perrine in the sheer black cloak, they made their way down the hall and back down the stairs, fortunately meeting no one. At the bottom landing, loud voices and laughter could be heard through the door, along with the acrid smell of poor tobacco. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and went for the door under the stairs, the one that he had glimpsed when he took Perrine from the parlour. By all rights there should have been a front door to match, but it had been bricked up, probably at the same time the connecting door between the two houses had been created. Thus, if the basic layout was the same, there would be a door under the stairs leading either into a back parlour, a kitchen, or another stairwell into the basement. 

The girls crowded up against him as he leaned against the door, listening closely and sniffing cautiously. He could smell damp, with a hint of something else. It was a familiar scent, however, and when he tried the handle, it turned soundlessly. Right, there was nothing for it but to go on. 

Sherlock opened the door, felt cool air on his face, then registered the single lamp burning in a wall sconce on the lower landing where the stairs turned. He might be taking them from the frying pan into the fire, as Lestrade was fond of saying, yet there was no other good option. He crept down the stairs, the girls following, Watson behind the girls. The stairwell was closed off by what he hoped was a supporting wall, so he had no view of the room or rooms beyond. If this were London he could be confident of coal scuttles and possibly a kitchen being down here. Boston was a different matter entirely. At the bottom of the stairs he cautiously peeked around the corner and saw...curtains. 

Yes, curtains. There was a centre aisle leading to a set of steps leading up. On either side of the aisle, curtains hung from the ceiling. He could hear...oh.

"What the hell is this?" whispered Watson, who had come close by Sherlock's shoulder.

"The cheap seats, I think," Sherlock whispered back, momentarily wishing they could leave by the same way they had come in, which was of course not even feasible.

Someone had attempted to make the basement look inviting, as the curtains, hung from the ceiling on tiny hooks, were all shades of yellow, with stripes and floral patterns. He could hardly imagine warmth being an issue; the room was absolutely roasting. Already he could feel himself becoming clammy under his arms and along his hairline. 

The sounds emanating from the cells created by the curtains were more than he wanted to bear, which also explained the musky, salt odor. The damp below it all added to the melange.

The basement was cleverly lit. Each cell had a lamp attached to the wall, light leaking out of the gap between the curtains and the ceiling so the aisle was dimly visible, enough for a person to walk without fear of tripping over the ends of the curtains that puddled on the floor. Although he could hear the sounds of people fornicating, apart from the occasional shadow, they were not visible, so the lamps must have been placed fairly high. A man began to curse, grunting every other word or so.

Sherlock felt a tug on his sleeve. Clemmie looked up at him, her face a pale oval.

"It's where the blackies come," she whispered. A moment later she glanced over her shoulder, said, "Except for Perrine. They took her right upstairs."

Of course they did. It only made sense to bring the girl who could almost pass for white upstairs, fool the clients with her beauty, make them pay more for less valuable goods. Or so the argument would go.

"Are we waiting here for a reason?" whispered Watson.

The nearest cell was dark, and with his curiosity piqued Sherlock cautiously pulled back the curtain. In the dim light from the next room over, he could see a body in the bed. No, a man, a very dark man. His eyes were huge and the whites were a muddy ochre, and bloodshot besides. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and an empty chamber pot was halfway under the bed.He lay nearly deathly still on the bed, and then, catching sight of Watson, held out a trembling hand. Watson ventured closer, frowning. He reached out to touch the man and Sherlock grabbed his wrist. He shook his head. "No, Mr. _Buchanan_ , I don't think that's wise."

Watson shot him an irritated look, bent down closer to see and sniff the man. He straightened, nodded, brows creased. "I've seen this before," he breathed. "In Virginia they call it the Fever, say it'll run rampant for a season across a plantation, then leave as suddenly as it appears. Takes about three, four days to get into the thick of it and then recover. I've never heard of it coming this far north, however."

"A mystery you can solve at a later time," Sherlock pulled Watson from the side of the bed.

Watson was obviously unhappy about this, but he allowed Sherlock to twitch the curtains back to their original place. He decided to delete the image of the man's pleading eyes as soon as possible.

Sherlock took the lead down the aisle. The end of the aisle turned out to be a T-junction. 

That made sense. Since Mrs. Camera had renovated to have two houses connected, why not the basements as well? Indeed, why not the whole block? Keep that veneer of respectability while earing money hand over fist? This would be the case of Lestrade's career, ha! 

The corridor to the right was pitch black, and to the left - to the left a mountain of shadow had detached itself from the wall, backlit by a single lamp somewhere out of sight in the basement beyond. Sherlock backed up as the shadow stepped into curtained basement. The shadow was a mountain of a man, bald, naked save for a loincloth around his hips, as muscled as a circus weight lifter, and so black he verged on blue. The whites of his eyes were bright against his skin and Sherlock thought back to his all too brief time in Africa, wishing he had better light so he could determine what area the man might be from.

The man stopped short, motioned towards the stairs they had come down. He said something Sherlock was unable to decipher. 

"Sorry, we're just leaving," said Watson, hustling the girls up the short flight of stairs to Sherlock's right.

The man slowly repeated himself. "You - in - the - wrong - room."

"Ah," said Sherlock, glancing to his right and seeing Perrine disappear into the dark at the top of the stairs. A blast of cold air swept down, shifting the curtains and prompting cries of _shut the g-ddamned door!_

The man flicked a glance at Sherlock. "Where she gwan'?"

"That's a private matter," answered Sherlock. He turned to go up the stairs, saw movement out of the corner of his eye _stupid!_ and threw up an arm in an attempt to block the blow, but was far too late. The open-handed slap caught him on the back of the head and pitched him face first into the brick foundation. He bounced off of it and fell to the floor, trying to blink the towering man away, as well as wondering why there were now two of him. He blinked again and suddenly Watson was standing at his side, grabbing the man by his shoulders and pushing him away from Sherlock and then no, _pulling_ him forward onto his head?

It made no sense.

Or maybe it did, because blood spurted from the man's face and as he staggered back, Watson followed through, shoving him back and back again until he brought the man up short against another wall, where he punched him in the face for added measure. It seemed to Sherlock that everything thus far had taken place in complete silence, only the scuffling of Watson's boots against the brick floor and the solid thunk of the back of the man's head hitting the wall when Watson punched him could be considered noisy. But now he heard an inquisitive voice from behind one of the curtains, and that spurred him to lurch to his feet. 

Watson had to help him up the uneven steps and out the door, which Sherlock could not wrap his mind around. Had the door been open all along? Where was the watchman, who let clients in or out? How was it they were still below the street? "Watson?"

"Shh," Watson said in a low voice. "Come on, the girls are waiting for us. Quiet now."

By the time they made it to street level, the cold air was beginning to dregs of the strike away. He was going to have a massive bruise on his forehead, judging by the headache that was already springing to life. Sherlock's vision was good enough to get them to a better neighborhood, where Watson flagged down a coach, another miracle in and of itself. No, no, the true miracle was the cabbie, who merely looked at the girls with an upraised eyebrow, prompting an extra coin in payment from Sherlock.

"Watson," said Sherlock, leaning against the side of the coach. Thank G-d it was a closed top, rather an open one - he'd catch his death of cold otherwise. "Have him drop us off - "

"I'm not an idiot," replied Watson hotly. He glanced at the girls sitting across from them and moved closer to Sherlock. "I've already told him where and we'll have to walk from there. Can you manage?"

"Of _course_ I can manage!" he said, glaring at Watson, who shook his head with pursed his lips and sat back on his side of the coach. G-d, the night had not gone how he had planned at all! Having said that, he had learned plenty. There were Irish names to ask Lestrade about, and possibly a trip to New York.

Unfortunately there was no way to bring an injured man and two girls into a home without awakening the entire household.

Especially since they had had to walk from two blocks away, and the girls were complaining of the cold. They entered the house via the outer office door in the hope of keeping quiet. First came Jingle, rubbing her eyes but fully dressed, knocking on the door and then opening it without further instruction. Sherlock was not sure whether he admired her for her audacity, or disliked her for the very same. For all she knew, there could be people in a state of undress, who had no desire to be seen by anyone else! She spied him first, looked him over and decided that despite the blood he could feel had already dried on his forehead, he was fine. Dismissed from her thoughts. Sherlock felt no need to take her into consideration either, and promptly headed to the kitchen for something hot to eat or drink. He had found it was quite an Boston habit, to have a pot of bans in the ashes of the fire, and a pot of water gently steaming next to the fire for whatever reason. The Watson home was no different, for there were both pots. He wanted water more than anything else, so ladeled himself a cup of hot water and with a little searching, dropped a sliver of dried ginger in it to heat his cold, cold blood. Before coming here he thought he had known was cold weather was like, but New England was proving itself different. It was of course more damp in England, but the mercury dropped far faster here, and he found himself almost constantly thoroughly chilled.

Sherlock dipped into the beans as well, for good measure. Food usually warmed the body, and hot food would do so even more. The beans were delicious, though Lestrade's Lucy made a better dish. Still, these were a little sweet, a little salty, glistening with fat at the top. He had just finished his last spoonful when he heard voices in the hallway. Ah. 

"Oh Mr. Holmes!" said Clara, catching sight of him as soon as he left the kitchen. She stepped off the last riser of the stairs and hastened toward him with no small amount of concern. "John said you had ill contact with a brick wall - your poor forehead! That's going to be quite a bruise, let me get you some ice for it."

"Please," he said, holding up one hand and blocking her way to the kitchen with a neat sidestep. "That won't be necessary. Besides, I very much doubt Dr. Watson would appreciate it if I let you out of the house at this time of the night."

"Oh," she said, crestfallen.

"It was very kind of you to offer, however."

She nodded, glanced back at the open office door. "Well, I should let you to it. I'll help Jingle with setting up their room."

"Of course," he waited for her to get out of his way, then went into Watson's office. Clemmie and Perrine were seated side by side on the table. Mrs. Watson stood by the back door in similar dress to Clara, except her arms were crossed and her expression watchful. Jingle was helping Watson, holding clothing out of the way while he examined minor cuts and bruises on their legs. Sherlock was tempted to tell him not to bother, but perhaps the doctor wanted to feel useful. Well, useful in the medical sense.

"Well done, " Watson patted both girls on the knees, then rolled his chair back to his desk. "Nothing major at this juncture, though of course I want you to tell me anything that might be of a going concern. Now you're to go upstairs with Harriet and Clara and get some rest. We'll sort what will happen next in the morning, all right?"

The girls nodded and hopped off the table, following Mrs. Watson out the door.

"You're to have a bath in the morning straight away - "

Sherlock waited until their footsteps faded before shutting the door. "Are you sure it's wise for them to stay here?"

"Hmm?" Watson made a notation in his book, closed it. "Those two? Yes, it'll be fine. They won't have a chance to do anything foolish, not with Jingle to look after them."

"I hope you're right."

Watson glanced up at him, eyebrows quirked. "I like to think I'm a fairly good judge of character, at least with my patients, and Jingle's even better. Nothing's going to go astray in this house."

"And what of Clara's sister?"

"Well, it's not like she doesn't already know how it is between men and women."

"She might learn something new," Sherlock ventured quietly. Although he was certain Watson was not likely to come after _him_ with a closed fist, certainly not in his present condition, he had learned that many men, when faced with ignoble realities concerning the unsullied state of their daughters, were more than happy to lay their anger on him, as if he had been the one to lead their children awry.

Watson was not perturbed in the least. He motioned towards the bed. "Right, your turn."

"Oh, do I get to kip upstairs, too?" quipped Sherlock.

"If you like. I'd recommend it, myself," said Watson, peering at Sherlock's forehead. "You could use a good meal, too. Jingle's a fantastic cook, so, if you want."

The idea of walking back to his lodgings or bouncing along the cobblestones in a cab made his head pound, and not in a good way. Besides, he was still hungry. "Does she make tea?"

"She does."

"Coffee?"

"Of course."

"In that case, I shall take you up on your offer."


	3. One-Two-Three, A-B-C

John wiped his lips free of toast crumbs and hummed happily to himself. A fine breakfast of egg, beans, bacon, tomato relish, tea. There was much to be grateful for in life, and a good, hot, filling breakfast was definitely one of those things. He glanced up as Harriet entered the room. "Good morning."

Harriet raised both eyebrows and grimaced. "You're perky."

"I had a good night."

"A good night - a _good_ night!?" Harriet shook her head, reaching for the tea pot at the same time. "Only you would bring two strange and dirty girls to my house and say it was a good night."

John leaned against the back of his chair, his good mood vanishing in an instant. "That's hardly fair. Once they're cleaned up, you'll find them completely presentable. I know for a fact that Clementine comes from a good home," which was perhaps stretching the truth a bit, but he decided to stick with his initial impressions. She was smart enough to know which side of her bread was buttered, certainly.

Harriet pursed her lips and concentrated on sipping her tea. "I see Mr. Holmes has already left."

A bit of a surprise. John admitted to being disappointed. "No doubt he has other work to attend this morning."

"Oh John," said Harriet with a huff of exasperation. "Do you not see how this will look? You're a doctor with prestigious clients. If they know they are the kind of patients you're treating, they'll see another doctor, someone who - who - "

John stared at her, quite taken aback by her short litany of...grievance. Worry? Why on earth was she concerned about his reputation now? Where was this coming from? And from her, given the things he had heard before heading off to the Crimea, and certainly what he had seen the day before her wedding, never mind what he had found in and around the house.

"Don't look at me like that," she muttered into her cup. "I'm just trying to protect you."

"Has someone said something to you?"

Her head shot up. Wide-eyed, she said, "How - how did you know?"

The bastards. The bloody _bastards._ No need to know the who, not yet. "Because you positively entreated me to bring a young woman to Boston who is unmarried and pregnant and not even a blood relation to us, yet you're worried about strangers, strangers for whom no-one would bat an eye, seeing as they entered through the office door. You've had your own difficulties here as well, don't think I'm unaware - "

Harriet ducked her head down again.

"Look," he reached over and squeezed her elbow. "I know it's difficult for you, and I can move the practice out of the house if necessary, or if you want me to - "

"I don't."

"Good," he said. He had to know. In fact, he had a pretty good idea as to the culprit. "Was it Mrs. Hopkins?"

Shaking her head, Harriet said, "I know you don't like her."

An understatement. "She'll never be my favorite person in the world, no. And I think this proves my point rather admirably, don't you?"

"You don't understand, John! Mrs. Hopkins was the first person to welcome me to this country! Silas was always so busy with the practice and his writing and his explorations and his travels. Mrs. Hopkins showed me around Boston, introduced me to people. She made living here that first year bearable."

John did not quite know what to say. Mrs. Hopkins was most definitely _not_ Harriet's friend if she felt comfortable in saying such things to her. Besides, he had met Mrs. Hopkins several times and had yet been impressed. The way she had looked at him, from head to toe and obviously finding him wanting before he had said more than 'hello'. Judgmental, fussy old bat. And she was only slightly older than himself! "You have other friends, now," he reminded Harriet gently. "You have Clara, and Mrs. Canfield, Mrs. Dubois, Miss Natalie and Miss Cora Norris. Now you have Susannah, too. You even have the opportunity to direct the fortunes and futures of those two young women upstairs - "

She snorted in a most unladylike manner, gave him the side-eye. 

He nodded in agreement. "You know what I mean. You have good to do here. And it will be good for Hartwell and Eliza to mix with classes other than their own, just as we did when we were younger."

"Y'mean the way _you_ were able to. I was stuck at home working on my embroidery."

Reining in his temper, he nodded. "Exactly my point."

John was saved from further ruination of his day by the jangling of the door bell. He leapt to his feet, ready for any distraction he could gt at this point from Harriet's...whatever. She was eager to pick a fight, and he was equally eager to avoid one. He waved Jingle back as she came down the hallway. There was no reason a man could not open his own bloody front door, was there. Oh, g-d _dammit_ she was _not_ going to ruin his day!

Stopping short, John took a breath and then blew it out explosively. He was fine, he was good, he would be pleasant to whomever was on the other side of the door, even Mrs. Hopkins. Probably.

"Ah, just the man I wanted to see," said Lestrade, swinging back to glance at one passerby in particular. He gave a single nod at the fellow's back. "Clancy Thomas. Wouldn't've thought he'd be familiar with these parts, but clearly I'm wrong. Can't think of a good reason he'd stop by any household here, can you?"

"Maybe, if I knew who he was," answered John, stepping back to allow Lestrade inside. 

Lestrade shook his head. "No time for him, now. But I came to ask for your help, actually. Got a body at the morgue, thought you might be able to tell me what happened. By which I mean how he died."

"Gladly," John gathered his coat and hat, putting them on after shutting the front door. "So what's the story?"

"Fella was found washed up on the landing near India Wharf. Slave or ex-slave, one of the two."

"Ranaway?"

"Don't think so. No chains or brands or other instrumentation of capture. It's...there's just something not quite right about it, figured you might be able to tell me what the difference was."

"Have you seen other cases like this one?"

Lestrade thought for a moment, grimaced. "Sort of? Maybe? Not the first time we've had bodies wash up, G-d knows, black or white, Indian, even the odd Chinaman. Usually the cause of death is pretty clear, your pistol wounds, stabbings, slicings, stranglings, that type of thing. Even the poisoners leave tell-tale signs once you open up the bodies."

John caught the look of disgust on a lady going in the opposite direction and fought the urge to grin. He touched the brim of his hat instead. "And none of that is obvious in this case."

"No. Nothing of the sort. Yet he's clearly dead at the hand of another - I think. I'm pretty sure."

They walked on in silence for another minute, then Lestrade spoke again. "I'll have to look it up in the files, but now that I've thought about it, this _isn't_ the first time I've seen this sort of death. Only happens amongst the black folk. Mostly men, but there have been one or two women, a few young people. In fact, I'm sure of it."

Lestrade's enthusiasm swept John away, and before he knew it they were at the Station, swiftly heading for the morgue. Anderson was already there, which made John's heart sink. And there it was, the look of utter disdain. What for, John could not fathom. After all, Anderson was the one who dressed barely better than a beggar, and who smelled about the same. How Sally could stand it was beyond him.

"Dr. Watson, about time you got here," snapped Anderson, leaning against the other table with folded arms. "I've had to lug this body around by myself."

"For G-d's sake, Anderson, the man's got a cane," muttered Lestrade, rounding John to stand between him and Anderson. 

"Thanks," John muttered in return. Yes, he was not actually an invalid, if anyone cared. Ignoring their bickering, John approached the uncovered body on the table. Male, negroid, shaved head. The usual marks and scars of heavy labor, good musculature once better. Besides the lamps on the walls, there was plenty of natural light from the high windows, so it was easy to see that the dead man's skin color was sallow. Quite yellow, really. Unnaturally yellow. John didn't bother to pinch the skin, either. It was easy to see the man was dehydrated, his eyes had actually shrunk a little in their sockets, and there were creases all around his mouth, yet he was not as old as his skin suggested. In other circumstances, John would have expected him to be quite fit. Suffering from a cold, perhaps, but nothing that would land him in the harbour without outside influence.

"You see, yet you don't observe."

John straightened, turned towards Holmes. "Good morning to you, too."

"You realize you said all of that out loud?" commented Holmes, standing in the doorway.

"Force of habit," replied John. "When you're the only doctor for miles around, you get used to telling people what to do in an emergency."

"I doubt this poor fellow's going to need your aid any time soon."

Lestrade and Anderson could have been a double act on a stage, the way their heads turned from John to Holmes and back again.

Testily, John said, "Your point being?"

"You haven't recognized him."

John frowned and glanced back at the dead man. "No...wait - no!"

It was true, however. The dead man was the sick man they had seen at Mrs. Camera's establishment. Someone began to speak and John threw up one hand to silence them, closing his eyes a beat later. The niggling thoughts in his brain began to coalesce and he was reduced to ticking them off one by one on the fingers of one hand.

One) The 'fever' regularly swept through plantations  
Two) There were no Plantations in the North, though there were slaves  
Three) This was _not_ the first case of the fever he had seen, but he was so damned distracted he had not picked up on it  
Four) This man did not die of the fever  
Five) was it sexually transmitted? If so, how many people had been through Mrs. Camera's basement, and should he warn of an epidemic? And would anyone care of an epidemic among blacks?

But that assumed black people only slept with each other, and he had seen plenty of evidence that that was not the case. One of Harriet's two guests, for example. So. Better to believe that - yet, he had never heard of a white person having 'the fever', so mayhap it was not transmissible? How could that be? It was impossible, was the answer. Perhaps he had seen the fever plenty enough, and had never recognized it for what it was. Seemed unlikely, though. 

"Wrong, Dr. Watson," announced Holmes, finally deigning to joining Lestrade, Anderson, and himself in the room proper. "I'm no medical man, yet a pattern would emerge if what you're thinking were to occur. It would be well named, with a cure already on the way."

John raised an eyebrow. "And you believe the cause to be...?"

Holmes shrugged. "Unimportant. What I want to know is how this man came to be here. We weren't the cause - "

"Wait, what?" Lestrade took a step forward. "What do you mean that you weren't the cause?"

Holmes waved him off. "It's a long story, hardly worth repeating."

Except Lestrade was the one who had sent them there in the first place. John clasped his hands behind his back. "We found Clementine, and rescued another girl at the same establishment. This fellow here was in the basement, ill, along with a few others. I did a brief examination, but I certainly didn't think I would see him again, never mind here."

"As long as it's not contagious, I'm not too worried about what killed him. I mean, within reason."

John shook his head, frustrated. "What I know is that it's unlikely to be contagious, and that other patients I've examined have made a full recovery. I don't know why this man didn't."

While John was been talking, Holmes had taken it to himself to examine the body. He was extremely diligent, getting up close with a tiny magnifying slide, sniffing the palms of the man's hands, checking out the soles of his feet. John watched him sniff the man's armpit, then extend his tongue for a taste, shouted, "No!" 

Without even realizing it, he grabbed Holmes by the upper arm and jerked him back. "What are you _doing?_ "

Holmes blinked down at him, then extricated his arm with a sharp pull. "Gathering the facts, Dr. Watson. Without the facts you can't solve a murder."

John looked at Lestrade helplessly, but Lestrade only shook his head in grim amusement. 

"Sorry, mate. That's just his way."

Then it was Anderson's turn to comment. "Just his way," he sneered. 

"Oh come on," said Holmes. "surely you can do better than that."

"Licking a dead man's armpit? What kind of claptrap is that? Utter nonsense."

"That's disgusting!" cried Anderson, storming off out of the room.

Holmes looked at Lestrade, who chuckled, to John's surprise.

Lestrade hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. "Come on, then, what've you got for me?"

"I don't know what else I can tell you," John said, shrugging. "I have some research to do, see if I can find any correlating patterns."

"Okay. Let's meet back here in the morning."

John half hoped Holmes would simply follow him home, but Holmes tipped his hat and promptly walked in the opposite direction outside the station. Just as well, probably. 

Once he was back home, he checked his diary for any appointments, tidied this and refilled that. He gave Annie Chapman a scrip for poppy syrup, told Mr. Sylvestre the only way to recover from his gout was to stop eating kidneys and liver every day, recommended walking on the cobbles in bare feet twice a day for Mr. Talbot, who looked greatly distressed at the idea, but promised he would try it every day for a week. John doubted he would try it once, never mind fourteen times. On the other hand, it was spring and while there had been warm days, there had yet to be a warm week and the cobbles would still be cold. He was so busy he had quite forgotten about his visitors, having gotten stuck in to the stacks of old reports Silas had rather obsessively kept for the past decade. Now John was grateful to have taken his time deciding what to do about the material. It would have been funny, if he had told Jingle to use it all in the stove or the privy, ha! 

"Sir?"

John realized the sound that had been in the background had actually been someone knocking at the door, rather than a branch against the window in the wind. "Sorry, yes?"

Clemmie peered around the door, then slipped inside, followed by Perrine. In the cool light of day, it was far easier to see how unhealthy each of them were. Sallow complexions, the dark circles under their eyes, the bony protrusions of their collar bones in the ill-fitting dresses they wore. Cast-offs from Clara, he suspected. Though Harriet was small, Clara was tinier still, delicate as a bird. By comparison, the girls were...just that, girls. How anyone - John shook his head to clear the idea from his mind. He knew very well the kind of man to take advantage of a young girl. He had served with plenty of them. "Hullo."

The girls edged in, stood side by side. They looked at one another, then Clemmie said, all in a rush, "Thank you, sir, for bringing us out of that parlor house. I don't think we'd ever escaped otherwise."

John nodded, smiled. "Of course. Anyone would have done the same."

"We all know that's not true, mister," said Perrine, glancing around the room. "Doctor."

"You know how to read?" asked John after the fact.

"Yes sir. My old master wanted me to know how. Said he thought it was funny."

"Girls," John began, wondering the best way to approach the subject. Ultimately he went for it. Both girls were experienced in the way of life, they had few delicacies about them, now. "Tell me more about the basement. The basement in Mrs. Camera's."

"I ain't never been there before you came along," said Clemmie, looking at Perrine for support.

Perrine slowly nodded, staring at the floor.

"Mm. Well. Has Jingle fed you dinner?"

At the non-sequitur both girls were startled, then wary, which saddened John further. To be so world-worn at such a tender age! It did not bare thinking about any more. "Why don't we get some food, and then I'll ask some questions that you may or may not answer, though it will help me in my investigations."

Jingle had her usual face on when they entered the kitchen, a mix of compassion and displeasure. Surely she should be the most sympathetic, given the circumstances? John was never going to understand her. "Jingle, what have we got for dinner?"

She smoothed her apron over her hips and eyed the girls, her gaze lingering on Perrine. "Porridge, beans, eggs, ham, toast, tea, mush, coffee, cocoa. Plenty of butter and cream in the porridge, jam or maple syrup for the top."

Cocoa? Maybe she _was_ sympathetic. At the table John slid chairs out for the girls, then seated himself. "Porridge sounds delicious. With coffee, please."

Perrine and Clemmie looked at one another, then swung around the table and sat down, facing him and Jingle, keeping the two of them in sight. John approved. "We have to talk about what happened last night."

"No we don't," piped Clemmie. "We can just go on our way, sir, never bother you no more."

"And where would you go?" Jingle asked sharply, putting two bowls of porridge on the table. She stood next to John, a hot glob of porridge sliding down the wooden serving spoon and threatening to fall on his trouser leg. "Travel to the territories by yourselves? Fall in to some other Madam's hands? Pay for the trip on your back?"

"Ye-e-es..." added John, shifting away a bit. "Alternatively, you could stay here in Boson, or go to Springfield or Worcester, anywhere, really. You could attend school if you wanted."

"I don't like school," said Clemmie, picking up her spoon. 

Jingle put a crock of raspberry jam and a small pitcher of syrup between the girls. "I never had no schooling and look at me now. You want to get ahead in this world, then you learn your letters and numbers."

"I know my letters," said Perrine. "My numbers, too. My master learned me three summers ago."

"And have you kept them?" asked Jingle, squatting next to Perrine. 

"Yes'm."

"Good, real good. Now you, Clemmie, why don't you want to learn?"

Clemmie shrugged one shoulder and continued to stare into her bowl, making little rivers of melting butter with her spoon.

"Now that's not good enough and you know it, child," Jingle stood, grabbed the coffee pot and began to pour. "Don't trust anyone who says you can't do something."

John added a lump of butter and a sprinkling of salt to his porridge, but otherwise kept quiet. Jingle seemed to be doing just fine on her own.

Jingle poured coffee for them all, adding a hefty dose of milk to the girls' mugs. She followed that up with a good spoonful of maple sugar in each as well. "Now, Dr. Watson needs to know what happened to you in there, so he can stop it from happening again. He has friends in the police, I've met one of them and he's very nice."

With this announcement, Jingle returned the pot to the stove, gathered carrots and potatoes and an onion, a knife and a cutting board, and took a seat at the end table, next John. She topped and tailed the carrot, and when nobody spoke, gestured with the knife and said, "Well? What are you waiting for? Go on!"

John took his cue. "Tell me what you noticed about Mrs. Camera. Did she have any regular gentlemen around? Not the usual customers who attended the girls, but others, they might have retreated to her office to talk."

"Well...she had Buckie and Fergus, they're twins from Dorchester," said Clemmie around a mouthful of porridge.

Perrine nodded. "And Mr. Ward, he's from New York City."

"She liked the Irish the best. Mr. Regan and his boys from County Kildare, Mr. Moran. I heard her boastin' about a new contact with Mr. Moran, said she'd be able to get the best from down south."

"Have you met any of these men?" asked John, realizing how what he had said could be misconstrued a moment too late. "In the parlour, that is. Did you see them, do you know what they look like?"

Perrine shrugged. "They look like everyone does up here. Beardy. Except you."

John refused to take that as a judgment of his toilet. "I am not a follower of fashion."

"I know what Mr. Moran looks like," said Clemmie, looking at her coffee with suspicion. She took a sip, stared first at the cup, then at Jingle. "This is good! Can I have some more?"

"Not if you want to get any sleep," replied Jingle. "Don't think I don't know you've been up the night."

"You can't hardly blame us. We don't know if we can trust you."

Yes, well, he and Sherlock had only rescued them and brought them back home, no reason for trust there, none at all.

Jingle pursed her lips and said nothing.

"So, there are lots of Irish. Clemmie, you said you know Moran?"

"Mm. He's very tall, with sandy hair and great big mustachios. Taller than Mr. Holmes."

Hmm. John watched Clemmie scraping her bowl clean of the last dregs of porridge. "That's pretty tall."

"Not the tallest I've ever been with."

Jingle glanced up.

"Oh?" 

Clemmie sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her belly. "I've had taller, but none as mean."

John pasted a smile onto his lips, sure she would see right through it. "Well, you don't have to worry about that any more."

She blinked at him sleepily. Perrine, on the other hand, was still very alert, having only picked at her meal. She too, had drunk all of her coffee.

"Girls," said Jingle, collecting their dishes. "You go on upstairs and take a nap. I'll be up shortly."

"Yes'm," they chorused.

He and Jingle kept silent as the girls left, waiting until even their footsteps could no longer be heard going upstairs.

"Jesus," breathed John, leaning back in his chair. "I'll never understand children working in those places, nor the men who chose to use them."

Jingle shot him a hard look. "Men do it because they can. A girl child is a soft, vulnerable creature, easily overwhelmed and taken whether she want it or not."

John felt his cheeks heat. Yeah, of course Jingle would know all about it. He imagined most slaves did. Just look at his experiences at Shambleau - how had he forgotten the conditions of those people? Had he turned a blind eye, just because he was visiting someone's home? That woman Mary, she was Clara's half-sister, her father's byblow, and who was to say it was a willing encounter?

"They're out of it for now," added Jingle, putting the bowls in the dry sink. "But don't be surprised if you find them in the same situation in the future. Girls like that, young as they are, they don't know any different."

"Even when there's someone to show them the way?"

"Even then. Especially then," Jingle folded her arms and stood in front of John. "It's what they know, and it's easy. Spread your legs for a man and get paid for it. Might be a pittance, but you know what to expect and you have your freedom, such as it is."

"You call that freedom?"

She looked at him pityingly. "Of a sort. You don't understand it because you've never been that low, doctor. "

John shook his head, remembering Cawnpore and Lucknow and the things he had done there. "Oh, don't say that, Jingle. Don't say that."

"Not this kind of low. The kind you know you can never outrun, no matter where you go or what you do."

She spoke with a confidence that broke his heart. John could not help himself; he reached out and laid his hand on her forearm. She jerked back, then stood stock still. 

"You will always have a place here, with Clara and Harriet and myself, for as long as you want it. And if you don't want it, I will find you the best situation I can, here or even at home in England, if you like."

The moment stretched out, and just as John was beginning to think he had overstepped the mark, she gently removed his hand and backed away until she bumped into the counter.

"Thank you, sir, for the kind offer, but I'm happy where I am. I grew up a slave, I'm used to what life throws at me."

It was a non-answer, but John was not going to pry. Undoubtedly that was the most he was going to get out of her, and that was fine. She deserved her privacy, having so little else to call her own. He cleared this throat and stood up. "Well. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me."

Shortly after John went to his office, there was a knock on the outer door. When he opened it, he found an whizzened negro woman looking up at him. One eye was swollen shut, and her jaw was offset.

"In we go," John said, keeping an eye out for any curtains twitching across the way. Thus far he had only received one negative comment from the neighbors, but it was enough to make him hurry his patient inside. He watched her move critically as she hobbled to the nearest chair. She wore shoes, so it was unlikely to be her feet that pained her. Then he noticed a dark smear on the floor, and that, combined with her dark but damp clothing, clued him in to her having a serious problem.

He crouched in front of her, urging her head up without actually touching her. "All right then, what have we here?"

Her jaw was dislocated, that much was easy to tell. Possibly a fractured cheek or eye socket. None of those places were bloody, however. "Can you take your shirt off for me, please?"

She stared at him.

"I'm Dr. Watson. This is my office, you came here for me to treat you. I can't do that without looking to see what's wrong."

She continued to stare at him, this time more inscrutably than before.

Right. John went to the door and shouted for Jingle. While he waited, he washed his hands and put on his apron, arranged clean bandages and cotton batting the way he liked it on the tray.

"Sir?"

He spoke without turning around. "Jingle, can you help this patient get undressed? Please stay in the room during the examination."

There was a short silence, then he heard the rustle of linen. Good. He pretended not to hear Jingle taking quietly to the woman, nor the woman's indecipherable murmuring back. Not local, then. The accent was very thick, possibly not even in English. She wore plenty of clothing, but had no strong smell, so she kept herself as clean as she could. Her footwear was in good order. Multiple scarves over her short jacket and blouse, apron over the skirt. The skirt was dark and there was no way to tell the quality of its make. All in all, she was probably a slave and probably not one from New England.

"She's ready for you, sir."

John nodded, took a calming breath, pasted a smile on his lips and turned around. The woman wore a dingy and much repaired sleeveless underblouse. Her arms were ropey with muscle, but her collarbone stood out, as did the tendons in her neck. What he could see of her chest was boney and overall, she was much, much skinner than the amount of clothes she had been wearing suggested. And...there was no blood in the blouse, either. He looked at Jingle.

She shook her head. "Sarey won't take it off."

"Does she think the bleeding will stop?" he asked, all too aware of their earlier conversation in the kitchen.

She raised an eyebrow, twitched one shoulder. John sighed. "I'll leave that part to you, then. In the meantime, Sarey, I'm going to touch your jaw."

Sarey continued to look at him without expression, and made neither sound nor movement when he touched her jaw. It did not shift under his fingertips, and there was an unnatural bulge by her ear. "Your jaw has become unhinged on one side and I'll have to reset it. It's going to be painful." 

Jingle moved behind Sarey and put her arms across the woman's chest, holding her still. It was the perfect, appropriate thing to do, and John felt a flash of irritation at himself. He had enjoyed her cooking so much that it had never occurred to him that she might be equally skilled in other areas. "Jingle, we're going to have a talk in the morning."

She looked away. John bent a little, put both hands on either side of Sarey's face. "I'm just going to put my thumbs inside your mouth. I don't need to touch your teeth from the inside, not unless you want me check them. I'm going to press hard on one side to shift your jaw down, and then back to it's proper place, all right?"

It was Jingle who bore the brunt of what John was doing. Her face screwed up in a rictus of pain, for Sarey had grabbed her wrists with both hands and squeezed as John worked. The jawbone resisted at first, then smoothly moved in to position. 

"How's that, any better?" he asked, going to the basin to wash his hands once more. 

Sarey mumbled something that he hoped meant yes, because he really did not want to do that again. Treating wounded soldiers on the battlefield was one thing, quite another to treat a this kind of injury on a woman old enough to be his grandmother. "Have you eaten anything today? No? Well, I'm sure Jingle can get you something suitable," he said, nodding at Jingle, willing her not to talk back and just do as he asked for once. "I'm sure we have leftover soup or porridge or some such."

"I've a nice cream soup and some soft bread for you, Sarey."

Good, and then she could be on her way to wherever. John immediately felt bad for even thinking the thought. It was just, it didn't feel right, between him and Jingle. Since he had grabbed her like any Tom, Dick, or Harry might do in the street. He shook his head at his own stupidity. Should he apologize, or just pretend it had never happened?

"Sir, Sarey has a question."

John finishing drying his already fairly dry hands and sat down at his desk. "Yes?"

"Tiggid," she mumbled, barely opening her mouth.

He leaned closer to hear her better. "I'm sorry?"

"Tigged. God a tigged."

Jingle did a doubletake, staring at John as if he'd grown a second head. He gave her a wry smile. "Alright then. I'll see what I can do. Before I go, here's what you'll need to do once she finishes eating."

The bandage was simple, designed only to keep Sarey's jaw from moving when she was not eating. He made her clench her jaw, then strung a strip of cloth under her chin, tying it on top of her head. "That's it, that's all there is to it. Now Sarey, I want to keep this on for the next month, or a week past when your jaw starts feeling better. Think you can do that?" 

She nodded, looking old and exhausted and John could not help but feel for her. At her age, this could be non-recoverable no matter what he did, for there was little chance of her being able to rest, to relax, to recuperate from whatever had happened to her, and that did not include the other thing, the thing that she and Jingle were choosing not to share with him.

"Now I'm just going to pop over to Dr. Thomas's for a few minutes, I'll be back shortly."

~*~

 

Jingle was in the kitchen when he returned, rolling out dough for a pie. John hoped for apple. The Americans, he had discovered, simply made better fruit pies than the English. It might possibly have been heresy to speak the truth aloud, however, so he decided he would never tell Harriet or Clara. And if he did mention it to Lestrade, he was assured that Lestrade would never speak a word of it to anyone else.

There was coffee still in the pot, so he poured himself a cup and took a seat at the table. When Jingle glanced at him, he saw wariness warring with fear. Obviously he had mucked everything up and now it was time to make amends. "I've been amiss, Jingle, and it hasn't been until today that I've realized just how badly. I saw what you did with Sarey, I've seen what you've done with the children and any ill guest you've brought into this house. You've taken care of them, as well as myself and my sister and Clara, and I've never even considered what that might mean."

She was frowning, now, and was holding up the rolling pin as if to fend off his next words.

"In short, I should have been training you to be a nurse all this time."

"Sir?" she said, looking askance at him.

"Yes, a nurse, similar to a vivandiere. Except, without the alcohol, unless deemed medically necessary. I could start training you tomorrow," he could tell by the look on her face that she found the idea, if not abhorrent, not particularly welcome. "Alternatively, I could hire you out to Dr. Smythe, or Dr. Thomas. I think they would be amenable to you learning the basics of dressing wounds, wrapping bandages and general treatment of patients. What say you?"

Jingle frowned and shook her head. "I'm no healer, sir. I don't know how to dose out medicine and the like, we only used herbs at home."

"I use those too, in jars like this one," He reached out and grabbed the jam jar on the table. "Albeit much smaller. You don't have to learn medicine, just be my helper here in the office when I need you."

"Yes," she broke in, standing straight and small and fierce. "Why didn't you tell me, instead of watching me waste away in fear?"

"Tell you what?" 

She stared at him, openmouthed. "You _know_ what I mean! We could have helped one another! Or did you just enjoy watching me like a fish on a hook?"

"Jingle!" he said, shocked that she would even think such a thing. "That's not true, you know it isn't! I allowed you to keep those people here because it seemed harmless enough. What I was doing was far more dangerous - no one expects a doctor to be in the company of a black man who's not his slave!"

Her expression was one of utter disbelief. "Oh, they've noticed, Dr. Watson, believe me, they've noticed! Why do you think some of your patients have stopped coming here? Why do you think so much trade has picked up amongst the abolitionists? It's not simply because of Miss Clara and Miss Harriet!"

On some level he had known this was true; he simply had not cared too much about it because business had, if anything, gone up. As long as the money was coming in and Harriet was not affected, surely it didn't matter? "Why does that matter to you?"

She visibly collected herself, standing taller, clasping her hands together. "How people perceive you matters, sir. Maybe not to you, but you're a man, and it's different for you. Think of your sister and her lover, give your niece and nephew some consideration! Who they see, where they go to school, their friends all depend upon the decisions _you_ make! How is it you don't know this?"

No. Perhaps he had been in India too long, but surely the world had moved...

"I do know it, I just thought it wouldn't matter over here!" he shouted back. Putting a hand to his forehead, he turned away from her and covered his eyes. Perhaps he had been in India too long. The rules of Society were...not as stiffly held as in England, and he had simply assumed that here in America they would be looser still. Harriet and Clara being so...visible, had not dissuaded him in the least. Yes, of course he had a plan of action for when their respective husbands returned from California or wherever they had gone, but for now... "I'm sorry, Jingle. I wasn't thinking."

There was a small silence, then a light touch to his shoulder.

"I know. But you can't think like that now. You must be more circumspect. The next runaway who comes, you keep them here. I'll hide them away until the next Agent arrives. You do nothing by yourself. You don't bring them anywhere. And you must tell Miss Harriet and Miss Clara."

He started shaking his head. "I can't, I can't. It's too dangerous for them to know."

"And it's any less if they don't?"

She had a point. John felt so mixed about the whole thing. It was not that he was afraid they would try to involve themselves in the business, Clara had already proven she was willing to do whatever was needed, and Harriet...she liked her drink. G-d forbid she and Clara had a disagreement about anything, she liked her sherry and port the most, then, and the wine, too. What was more, for all the time she and Clara spent together, John could still occasionally smell spirit on her breath. There had been one rare occasion when everyone was out of the house, that he had gone into her room and done a little snooping. Of course he had found nothing, but where was she getting it all from?

Oh, his thinking was all circular. He needed to concentrate on one thing at a time, and right now, what mattered was the truth - or not - of what Jingle said. "Do you really think...am I bringing the world on our heads?"

There was a small silence before she spoke. "No. Not yet. You're new here - "

"New? It's been a year!"

"This is New England, sir, we have long memories. Don't shout what you're doing. Keep calm and let Miss Clara and Miss Harriet be loud, and everything will go back to normal. Outwardly, anyway."

John nodded slowly. "All right. I'll follow your advice. But only if you'll follow mine and learn how to be a nurse. A talent such as yours shouldn't be wasted."

"Talent?" she scoffed. "I know what any woman knows."

"Trust me when I say you don't. You remind me a little of my wife. Mary read my textbooks and liked to practice on me. You, on the other hand, will have real people to help while I supervise. Quid pro quo."

She still looked skeptical, and John realized he had to make the point far more clearly. "Think of it this way; you'll be able to help those in need when I'm unavailable. If you want, I'll even sponsor you to attend Mrs. Zakrzewska's school of medicine for women and children."

Jingle clutched her hands to her chest, frowning. "Why?"

"Because you're a talented healer needing only training. Those skills will mean you can go anywhere you want, and do anything you want. Skilled doctors and nurses are always needed, no matter where you live," he said gently, for she was clearly very affected by his offer. He drank the rest of the coffee and stood. "I'll leave you to think about it. In the meantime, I'll be in the parlour if anyone wants me."


End file.
